


A (brief but somehow) comprehensive list of the notable lovers of Tom Hiddleston.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, hiddlestoners
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Erotica, F/F, F/M, First Time, Flash Forward, Light Bondage, Porn With Plot, Voyeurism, Young Tom Hiddleston
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title says it all, really. A review of some of Tom’s sex highlights. Also, some lesbian action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A (brief but somehow) comprehensive list of the notable lovers of Tom Hiddleston.

The first one was Lexi.

Alexandra Burke was a pretty girl, two years older than him, with wide green eyes that rolled back into their orbs when she came, as he’d found out on his second summer back from the far away Eton his parents had condemned him to attend. She had the tiniest breasts, barely even there, and thick, copper curls that tickled his testicles when she was on top. Her boyish figure was covered in freckles and her thighs bore multiple stretch marks, her pale skin clearly not elastic enough to sustain the sudden growing spurt that’d left her a little bit over a head’s worth of centimetres above him. Tom sometimes liked to believe it was his rough fucking that left the mares there, but, aware of her self-consciousness, never said a word. He found them sexy as fuck.

He and Lexi had never been actual friends. Surely, he shared one of the fences sideways from his house with her, but that never really constituted reason enough to fructify their relationship in any way other than the occasional can-you-please-pass-me-the-ball-I-accidentally-kicked-it-too-hard-and-it-ended-up-on-your-side-of-the-fence-I’m-so-sorry-thank-you; he shared a fence with Josh the Dickhead Yank – who always blasted the Bee Gee’s from dusk to dawn, every motherfucking day of the week (until he got kicked out a couple months later, that is) and to whom to attributes his revulsion towards disco music – but he sure as bloody hell wasn’t going to befriend him. The only difference between Josh and Lexi turned out to be, in hindsight, quite unsurprisingly, the foot-tapping frustration she caused (and Tom, to this day, never taps his foot, because it’s rude) that all but made him want to jump her and rub one off against her leg, like a stray, un-neutered puppy.

And all because his dick decided to just go vertical one day and wouldn’t budge until he mentally defiled his female neighbour in the worst way possible, which he numerously did up to the point that, one day, after probably going several times through the Kama Sutra wanking to her, he found himself in the very unexotic missionary, sweating and humphing, a vein prominently throbbing in his forehead as he thrust into the more experienced Alexandra who was, albeit under stimulated, thoroughly fascinated with the fifteen year old lanky boy basically jerking off inside her. Expectedly, only later did she discover, although she’d had a pretty good idea of what was transpiring above her from the onset, based on the oddly phrased sentences the usually immaculately articulate Etonian mumbled and his inability to get it up, but had the good sense to not do a thing other than lower her expectations, that the cute, curly haired boy would actually find it more arousing pleasuring her than himself and their embarrassingly awkward first shag in the short while his mother and sisters were only god knew where (emphasising the oddly phrased sentences bit of their erotic rendezvous) was just the natural course of events given the circumstances.

Susannah was his first serious relationship.

She was a tiny brunette with bluntly chopped bangs and doe eyes, fellow actress whom he’s encountered on the set of some generic investigation drama directed by an Academy laureate to whom he subsequently looked up to a little less because there are thirteen seasons of CSI Miami alone and setting the plot in a country that uses more consonants than vowels doesn’t make anything special, if only excruciating to pronounce. Also, directing and starring in the same production – and as the protagonist no less! – is just so gauche, regardless of what your name is, or perhaps especially because of that. There is a certain seriousness that one has to maintain when he holds such a position, of holding one of those golden statuettes, more precisely, and that level of self-absorption trespasses the delineation of that exact conduct in Tom’s perception of the grand scale of things.

Susannah was all about intimacy. Whether it be holding hands or staring deeply into his eyes as she was taken – languid, steady pumps, never in a hurry, never roughly –, holding his hand or having him cup her face as he worked through the instinctual need of increasing friction, sex with Susannah generally classified as lovemaking. She was one to be worshipped and, loving her as he did (which was, in all honesty, a scarily great deal) he was all too pleased to do that very deed, regardless of the strenuous efforts it implied. He would kiss the top of her nose and go on long strolls with her through whatever European capital their oftentimes conflicting schedules allowed them to visit (matter to which Tom attributes his multilingualism; academics only cover the theoretical structure of a certain praxis, in the end it’s experience that puts such aspects together creating an ability ready to put to use at the drop of the metaphorical hat).

Kat was whom Tom fondly referred to as ‘the body’.

Being his characteristic workaholic self, it was only to be expected that yet another of the mention worthy women he shared bedding-related experiences with would be one he met on set. There are a couple of reasons why Tom Hiddleston wears enough leather to be considered a fetishist: according to the internet, his lack of any sense of aesthetic coordination and general style is one of them. The main one, however, is rooted into a much simpler explanation – Tom Hiddleston looks hot as fuck in it. Patent or matte, embellished or plain, there was not one variation of it that looked less than flattering on him. Again, not as far as the internet was concerned, but fuck the internet, really, because Kat (a.k.a. potential fuck) seemed more than just thoroughly appealed with the complex leather assembly he donned as his breakthrough character.

And his dick.

Kat’s tits bounced in the most hypnotising of ways when she ground up and down on his dick. Kat swore and moaned and screamed and demanded. Demanded to be slapped and whored around, demanded to be taken on top of the kitchen counter, or on the potentially eczema inducing carpet of the hotel room, behind the trailers on the set, in bathrooms, on dark alleys. Kat was an adventure in herself, she didn’t love him and he didn’t love her (that would’ve drastically changed the entirety of the situation) she had sex mostly for the thrill of it, and because her co-star had a ‘super posh and infinitely adorable’ (her words, not his) English accent, and Tom would never complain about something like that because if it were to be something he hadn’t purposefully cultivated that was getting him laid, well, all for the better.

And then there’s Kayla.

When Tom says “Cambridge” the first thing to pop into his head is Kayla, and this very simple fact he had only realised one dreadful autumn morning, a couple of years back, as he was diligently brushing his teeth as he always did, from up to down, once at dawn and once at dusk. Kayla did it side to side. “They’re going to fall anyway, at some point,” she used to say around a mouthful of mint-flavoured blue foam, shrugging and looking at him in the mirror, emphatically hurrying her arm’s movements as Tom mused about the idiotic sound of her reasoning. She wasn’t stupid, no, just hotter than she was smarter, for it wasn’t a matter of the indisputable losing of denture as much as it was about the preservation of it for as long as nature would allow. But Kayla had never been one to make long term commitments – hell, on a second thought, neither was he, yet caring for one’s body, he found, had immediate effects in most cases – she was more of an in-the-moment kind of girl, and this charming compatibility was what made their arrangement work so smoothly. It wasn’t in her intentions to settle and it wasn’t in his to settle with her anyway other than in that tight cunt of hers that, disregarding its lack of nutritional values, he was sure he could have for morning, lunch, dinner, and all the snacks in between, which was exactly what he did for the most part of his venture with upper scholastic endeavours, until they both took on their respective lives.

Although contact was never lost between the two of them – their schedules, hers as the manager of some indie rock band travelling the continent in a minivan cramped with various instruments and bags of clothes, showering once every three days and eating mostly plastic wrapped, high in sugar and artificial compounds, foods, and his, well, pretty much the same, only first class, now that his acting career has taken off big time, and he’s somehow become the internet’s boyfriend or some other shit along those lines – one on one meetings became scarce and brief the few times they happened; not because of estrangement. Tom had sworn the first time she put her lips around his dick that he’d never let himself loosen the liaisons with the possessor of such a deft mouth as hers, yet, over time, having been constricted by various considerations, each harder for him to actually believe than the other (dinner with Samuel L Jackson would be a proper example in illustrating his bewilderment), the only actions in which he engaged with said mouth had become less and less physical – justifying his forcefulness now as her tongue strokes his steadily but with some deeply rooted need he can, too, feel burning under his skin – than he’s ever been back in his youthful days. Or maybe he’s just putting on a show, the endemic performer that he is, the people pleaser, subconsciously emphasising his movements to get his point across to the blonde-haired-blue-eyed American watching them, Madison, all long limbs and cheeky smile, all next-door girl, which he’s heard of on more than one occasion, referred to with endearingly derogatory names to portray their rather unorthodox relationship. A “long-time admirer” of his work, as she so amiably put it, and of which Tom didn’t really care about as long as there was no frenzied squealing, which, to his great relief, there wasn’t.

The more pussy, the better.

Which is why he finds himself to be so damn gobsmacked at the radical turn the proceedings has taken once Kayla’s bra came off. Tom isn’t one to turn down sex on the kinkier spectrum of practice and, trusting his long-time friend, didn’t need more than a beat to give his absolute consent to the unanswered question the rope she presented him with implied. But now there is a cock ring firmly clasped around his worryingly aggravating erection and he’s effectively bound to a chair, unable to take it off and relieve the discomfort, and Madison’s nose is so deeply planted into Kayla’s cunt that one would think it’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

“Oh, look at her, she’s so wet for me.”

And Tom looks, since there’s nothing else he really can do at the moment (the bitch better know what’s coming for her when he is released, but he supposes that’s, in fact, the whole point of his restraining) and she is, indeed, dripping wet and panting because Maddie’s finger circles her clit with great tenacity, like she’s utterly enthralled with what contact with such a small portion of her pal’s body can do, like she doesn’t have one of her own. Yet as irritated with the string of occurrences Tom is, and he is, plenty, he can’t help his groan as said finger leaves the slight nub and goes inside, or when another joins and Madison’s lips latch on Kayla’s nipple. It’s when her hand goes straight between her legs, no teasing about that move, clearly too eager to bother with theatrics, to satisfy her own need for release that Tom cracks.

“Let me go.”

The blonde doesn’t stop, but merely whines in her companion’s mouth.

“Should we let him go, baby?”

The sound Kayla makes doesn’t speak to Tom in any way, but it seems to be enough for Maddie to cease the movements (much to Kayla’s displeasure, mind you) and straddle his knees, most lips brushing teasingly against cock.

“Now, mister Hiddleston, do you wanna join us?”

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't even supposed to be writing today, or any day in the next couple of months because fucking exams and shit, and I just motherfucking had to do this shit and my two (also very busy and terribly tired) quasi-beta readers (I usually do my own editing, but I was too excited to post this so fuck it. I’ll re-read it/fix it some day when I'm free. Your input would be amazing, though, so, if you spot any mistakes/inconsistencies, please feel free to call me out on my shit) are both fast asleep, which is exactly what I'm going to do after uploading this.
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks.


End file.
